snap

grotesque, the sound of breaking bone,
the snapping of a dove's neck, broken bone sticking through the skin
as blood drips down its feathery white cape
and hands just as pale as it lets go, letting it fall to the marble floor
with a thud and a splash.

thirteen doves, all deathly bleeding scattered about,
around a girl with porcelain white skin, midnight black hair
and eyes of blue with the deathly yellow of crazed animals livid amongst their depths.
nude, with small breasts, positioned on her knees, sitting back on her feet, bent forward
with her head just raised straight up looking a crystal chandelier
that stole the light from the midmorning shining through the glass part of the door
and turned it into rainbows cast about randomly on the white walls, skin, and doves
mixing with the cool greys, blueish tints, and white lightning spears of the tiles.

with an abandoned ferocity, the girl attacked the door,
slipping on blood and clawing at the doorknob, trying to get out
hungry….driven insane by the isolation of the dust, the dark corner of her life,
that twilight upon the rise of the night of the great, the speck of light
they take for falsery of their pasts and hide away in a shadow surrounded by word of goodness,
not forgotten, but condemned by mistakes of a falls passing, buried under winter
and rewritten by spring, fault laid in places unknown, and soon quietness
absolute death of sound breached that which was her life, loneliness
inspired by poetry of other souls and daydreams of an all empowering love,
except she has no ability to love, it takes a certain kind of soul,
so, hungry for the blood that lays out there,
that pain of which she is forbidden, that which is life
of a dawn of new things to come

it is midmorning, the day full nearing its prime with a steady pace,
another revolution rests on the air with glosses of glory and gloom,
a depression and revelry, euphoria of the heart, nostalgia and lost loves
withered about on the wind resting in peoples souls,
and the scratches on the glass are looked without a thought,
they thinking, they the people or the wise or the farmers or the poets,
we all have our crosses to bear,
but only secretly she knows, that she has none

another dusk is coming to sprinkle her hall with more fairydust,
glitter that falls over the bloody mess she's made
as she crawls around her dead doves that will rot with time,
the chandelier will fall, break, and glint in the room
perfectly made for the fragile birds, glass finery, and an opaque presence
meant to be a human being